Postlude
by Bejai
Summary: In the aftermath of "The Witch's Familiar," the adrenaline and elation fades to exhaustion. A mutual hurt/comfort story.


Notes: a short, unedited, utterly indulgent mutual hurt/comfort thing after "The Witch's Familiar." Because they need it, and so do we

* * *

Before Clara had time to even register that he had abandoned her on Skaro just as the reanimated Daleks were pulling it apart, the Tardis rematerialized and he was back again. Looking like ... something. Utterly done in, certainly, but somehow more at peace. He took her hand without a word and led her inside their ship. He stopped very briefly at the console to put them into the vortex, hand still firmly clasping her hers, then led her down the hall to the infirmary, which the Tardis had placed behind the very first door.

He gave her a crooked smile and wrapped his hands around her waist to boost her onto the exam table. She ached everywhere, and was grateful for the help, but more grateful for his touch. He helped her out of her jacket, which he carefully draped over the other exam table, then his hands were on either side of her face. She could feel him trebling. He ghosted his thumbs over her temples, his eyes catching and holding hers for a moment before he tenderly brushed her hair back so he could examine the small wounds on either side of her head.

"Lie back," he said softly, speaking for the first time. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if he hadn't used it in a year. Or as if he'd recently been screaming. He supported her as she leaned back and eased her onto the table. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to hold the day at bay as he examined her wounds. The adrenaline and exhilaration were fading into a haze of limp exhaustion.

"We're you ... tied up? And did you fall off something?" he asked.

She cracked an eyelid at him. He was frowning down at a scanner in his hand. "Yes," she answered simply. He sighed, and she closed her eyes again while he worked on the cuts and bruises, the cracked ribs and the bump on her forehead. He smoothed a patch onto the back of her hand ... 53rd Century painkiller, she knew. Then his hands were back in her hair, fingers tenderly curved at the nape of her neck.

"How is your head?" he asked, his voice still worryingly rough.

She opened her eyes and shrugged. "Aches. And sort of ... leaky and ringing? Is that a thing?"

"Yeah," he murmured. "Let me ... just ..." she met his gaze, which was hesitant, guilty, pleading, his hands hovering millimeters from her face. She pressed her cheek into his palm, and smiled against it when his breath caught in his throat. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Hang on," he murmured. Before she could ask him why, her mind dropped, the claustrophobic memory of the Dalek casing closing over her thoughts, all the more terrifying for the baffling sense of déjà vu that came with it. The control freak out of control, the Doctor's oldest friend her tormentor, her very words traitors. Was this what Danny had felt, Clara wondered with horror, trapped inside the metal body of a Cyberman? She gasped through her tears and tried to shake away the weakness, but the pain only spun around her more wildly until - suddenly the Doctor was with her, holding the universe still. She sighed in relief, both of them unmoving as he gently closed the holes into her mind, soothing the raw edges as he moved at the borders of her consciousness. Once her breathing slowed and her mind stilled, he smoothed his hands through her hair, then lifted them with a regretful sigh.

"I'm sorry. Rest, Clara," he whispered. Although she was still trembling, she caught his hand as he moved to go.

"I will," she promised. "But first, your turn," she said as she slid a bit unsteadily off the table. She still ached, but it was easing as the medicine he'd given her started to bring cool relief, radiating up her arm and through her body in waves.

He shook his head in protest, then sighed in defeat when she lifted a commanding eyebrow. He wordlessly handed her the scanner and hitched himself onto the table. He pulled off his coat and hoodie and carelessly dropped them onto the floor. Clara firmly pushed on his chest until he gave in and flopped unto his back. He rubbed his hands up and down his face as she waved the scanner at him. Clara glared down at it, then gave it a shake before scanning him again.

"Your temperature is high. Really high. No wonder your hands felt warm," she said. "And ... this one isn't translating?" She moved to show him the symbols on the scanner that the Tardis was refusing to interpret, but before she could he answered:

"Regeneration shock."

She stared down at him in horror. "Did you regenerate? Or, are you _going_ to regenerate?" she asked him urgently.

"No," he said soothingly. "I was just ... exposed to a high level of regeneration energy. Takes a bit to settle everything down, but I'll be fine."

"What the hell happened?" Clara asked softly. "What did they do to you? Missy practically sprinted out of the room when she saw a regeneration aura around the Daleks. That was from you, wasn't it? What were they doing to you?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Just what was necessary for me to defeat them. They thought I'd opened my veins to them, but it was actually the other way 'round. It just took a bit out of me to press the advantage, that's all," he said, clutching for a moment at the center of his chest.

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes."

"Anything I can do?"

"No." He sighed and closed his eyes. As he stilled, she realized he was in rougher shape than she'd thought. Weeks of sleeplessness, at least, and he was good stone lighter than the last time she'd seen him. The despair had pierced through him with sharp barbs, and was still clinging to him harder than the grime of medieval England and the slime of Sarko.

"Slide over," she said, and climbed up on the narrow table with him. She grabbed his filthy coat on the way up and pulled it with her, a makeshift blanket. They both smelled terrible, but she didn't care. Clara nestled her face into his chest and listened to his hearts beat. He was definitely too warm, and beneath her cheek she could feel an almost-imperceptible trembling pulsing through him. He didn't seem inclined to do anything but hold her, and Clara was tempted to just let them stay there, but her aching body was telling her that was a bad idea.

"Action plan," she murmured into his shirt. "Shower. Hot one for me, cool one for you. Clean clothing. Big pot of tea. High calorie food. Sleep. Oh, and at some point I really need to call Kate Stewart."

"Kate Stewart?" the Doctor asked, not opening his eyes. "Why?"

Clara flapped a hand tiredly. "There was a ...thing, on Earth, just before I left. Taken care of, don't worry about it. I just owe Kate a call."

"Mmm," he grunted, still not moving.

"We need to get up," Clara said reluctantly, also not moving. "In five minutes," she allowed, pulling herself closer.

"Yes, boss," he answered, the words rumbling in his chest.

Clara would wake up twelve hours later in her own bed on Earth, with the Tardis parked behind the door and the Timelord himself snoring beside her. And they'd heal from their wounds, and fight their nightmares. She'd make him eat until he was a more acceptable weight again, and he'd help her fall sleep until she could do it on her own. She'd tell him about Missy, although he wouldn't answer her when she'd tell him, a bit angrily, that she really didn't understand how he could still love the Timelady. Then he'd tell her about a frightened boy on ancient battlefield, and she'd understand after all. He'd finally admit just what he lost to defeat the Daleks this time, and also confess that he actually wasn't entirely certain how much he'd lost. He'd tread carefully for weeks, months, taking them to Earth-bound parties and operas and tea, until she'd finally confront him in exasperation and demand planets and explosions.

That would all happen, spun out in the future in front of them. That, and more. With her ear above the the beating hearts of a lord of time, Clara could almost hear it: adventures and comfort, laughter and tears. And inevitable parting, somehow, somewhen. But for now, just now, the Impossible Girl held her Doctor, or perhaps he held her, and it was enough.


End file.
